Posts Tagged ‘gimp’

When I first carved out this little corner of the intarwebs with but a left hand tossing painkillers and shots of Jameson down the hatch, I was writing purely for my own sanity.  I would mock my own crippled ass, and marvel at how difficult some tasks could be with only one usable hand.  All in all, more of you read that shit than my rants and running commentary.

It’s ok, I understand that I was a better writer while shitfaced.  It’s been a trait that I’ve been aware of for about a decade.  That, however, has positively jack dick to do with this edition.  I think I may have killed Jill 2.0.

That which hath gimped me, sans sling.

Remember this?  Yeah, very real fear.

That’s right, my precious repaired hand has given me reason to worry enough to call a physician.  What genius move did I do to cause this, you ask?  What could I have possibly done that would do more damage than a Tough Mudder (let alone two?)  I’m almost embarrassed to say, and it actually didn’t involve a foray into my boxers.

I played dodgeball…  for five freaking hours.

That’s right.  It wasn’t catching a fridge, it wasn’t doing dumb shit at the gym, and it surely wasn’t a marathon fap session in front of the tube.   I was playing a game that fellow 80’s children know and love.  I hadn’t played since maybe high school, and I was being called in as a ringer for my wife’s company team…  I figured, “Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?  We’ll play three or four games, get eliminated, and it’ll be fun!  I can’t wait to see what this body of mine can do compared to runt me.”

Yeah, I'm saying the same damn thing.

Shut up, Jean Luc.

So here I am, two full weeks later, and my wrist is snapping in ways it hasn’t since the doctor fixed the initial injury.  Was an astounding third place ranking in the tournament worth it?  Maybe.  Would I do it again?  Maybe–  it was pretty funny seeing what this body can do when I’m listening to Amon Amarth and playing a game based upon agility and relentless hostility.  There’s a certain delectable joy that can be derived when you’re playing against a team of high school varsity athletes, you’re the last one standing, and you gun down the three remaining members of their team with extreme prejudice.

Then again, that might also be how I threw my hand off my wrist.  That’s all I can figure happened.  The arm hasn’t thrown full power in years, it’s a lot stronger than it used to be, and Jill 2.0 isn’t as durable as she was in yesteryear.

Tomorrow I get to find out where I go from here, and if I’m going to be able to tackle Tough Mudder #3….  if my last workout is any indication, I’m seriously worried.

Unplug.

 

Acronym-related puns make THEMselves when you’re one of us… or I should say, one of T.H.E.M.  That’s right, your favorite band of masochistic miscreants took on another Mudder– this one touted as “Pittsburgh.”  Yinzers, time to get even more pissed than the 0-4 Steeler record, because this event wasn’t even in West Virginia and carpetbagging on the nearest metropolitan landmark.  Oh no, it was in Ohio.

I would normally make a “dirty flatlander” joke here, but we were at Powerline Park.  Those of you familiar with that place know that the terrain’s regularly used for goddamn ATV/Truck/Motorcycle rallies/races and general-purpose motorized fuckery.  Motorization is not part of the Tough Mudder unless your busted carcass is being carted to the EMT’s.

Ironically, easiest and most comfortable obstacle...  look at the WAKE off my hands!

Or drowned.

So last year I halfassed my training, but having a couch-tier fat fuck along for the ride both covered and injured my unprepared ass.  This year, I came ready to Johnny Badass this thing— as did the vets from 2012.  However, you clearly see no costume on me—that’s because the whole Vegeta thing fell apart with the foam wig idea, and my Deadpool getup was held up at US Customs for two fucking weeks.  The vanity training paid off anyway– I kept up with the military contingent of the team well enough.

Yeah, Pink.  Wanna fight about it?

Dirty and Happy is the only way to roll.

That said, there’s only so many times you can climb a goddamn mountain before you’d choke a bitch for a man-made obstacle.  The terrain this year was unreal.  Seriously, the cats planning Tough Mudder “Pittsburgh” (yes, I’m entitled to use sarcastiquotes for the venue) relied heavily on the mountain over hammer and nails.

I’m not complaining about how strenuous the track was (yeah I am), but this year was more of a cracked-out trail run than a Tough Mudder.  Cleveland 2012 had over 20 obstacles to conquer, but this year had maybe 14.  The rest of THEM would agree.  That’s right, we wanted to up the ante with more fire, electricity, water, and cannonballs.

CANNONBALL!!!

Speaking of…

It’s official, however, we’re all addicted to this torturous pastime of ours.  Our fervor is to the point of picking specific challenges to dominate—naturally mine was Funky Monkey.  I ended up in the cold, unforgiving, muddy drink last year.  This year… well, Jill 2.0 handled it as expertly as if it were my dick—with no gloves or wrist brace because I’m a forgetful moron like that but that’s another sidebar entirely.

No gloves = better grip... who'd'a thunk?

I think these guns are borderline illegal, thanks to the NYS S.A.F.E. act…

Jill 2.0 is victorious!!

Sweet, dry victory…

Next year, we tackle Buffalo for the trifecta.  Seriously, you should get up off your Cheeto-chomping ass and join T.H.E.M.  You have a little over a year to get ready, and accept the fact that your definition of “ready” is going to be like a kid’s definition of the Tooth Fairy.  Sure, you know you’re right—but you don’t know how wrong you are.

Now quit cowering, I’m hoping for a horde of T.H.E.M. next year—and we roll as a team, nobody left behind. What do you have to lose besides your fallacious definition of badassery?

Over the fire, and into the drink, walkin' in fire we go!

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

Yes, I want you to be one of T.H.E.M.

Unplug.

Ok, now that I’ve recovered from my anaphylactic reaction to douchebaggery, we can all get back to something we can all enjoy– me bagging on myself with extreme prejudice and alacrity.  Onward!

Last night I finally got to take rebuilt Jill on a test run of my favorite sport of all time–  Beer Pong.  Once upon a time, I was the kind of guy who could pick a partner out of the crowd and dominate a table for an entire night, just to watch people get mad.  If I was really feeling frisky, I’d switch it up and let Rosie run a riot on the table for sarcasm’s sake.  My buddies and I would do all kinds of stupid trick shots, with mine being the Kareem-esque Sky Hook– just not quite as perfect (at least that’s what drunk me remembers, and he has a splendiferous memory).  Anyway, back in college, I had five TKE house championships– and all of them with different partners (nobody else since can claim that).  That’s right, I’m a TKE, and have been one for a decade this November– and I’ll always be proud of that fact.

Screw Ping Pong

Aside from their original Olympic purpose, these babies are better known for being shot outta Winona Ryder's hoo-haa... and better used in God's Game itself-- BEER PONG.

Shameless plug aside, I’ve fallen out of practice in my old age (being responsible sucks, and not in the fun way).  Instead of being the unstoppable destroyer, I have more off nights than on– and it frustrates the unholy bullshit out of me when people consider a five game streak a “hot streak.”  Screw getting old, but that’s another rant.

I lived the better part of my collegiate career (just short of a geological epoch) sinking cups and screaming obscenities at plastic.  Hell, sometimes I still get a spark of the old fire–  like the night where I went over to one of my coworkers’ place for a party and proceeded to demolish him and his girlfriend.  It gets better.  They didn’t shoot once.  Jill and Rosie doubleteamed them.   It kinda went like this:  Jill hits.  Rosie hits.  Bring ’em back!  Jill hits again!  You ready for this shit?!  Rosie hits again!!  Bring ’em back again, bitch!!!  GAME.  That’s how things used to be every weekend  (and many weeknights) for me.   Ok, enough geriatric crap outta me, bad enough that I’m still a gimp.

I thought all those days would be over after Jill went under the knife, especially since Rosie has lost her game.  Last night, I got to test out how rebuilt Jill would hack the old game.  The first game was bad.  I couldn’t buy a single freaking cup– even with Rosie.  At that point, the cherubs on high must have wept a bitter tear for me.  My partner’s back must not have been too sore (you know, from carrying the team), because he wanted to keep it going.  I wanted to keep drinking (go figure), so what the Hell did I have to lose?  I now know what it feels like to be the replacement punter with a Super Bowl ring.

Then.  It happened.

Team "Mo Gimps" on the rampage

Yes, I was dancing up to the table. Yes, I hit that shit too. You just got beat by a quasi-cripple.

Jill’s memory rebooted, or maybe she drank deep the tears of the cherubs weeping for the fallen legend.  Maybe I caught a buzz.  We may never know.  As we all know (due to my bitching and whining) the rebuilt wrist can’t move for shit (and if you really play, you know that your game is 70-ish% wrist)— but rebuilt Jill finally broke her crucial cherry.  Then she hit her very next shot.  Team “Mo Gimps” started hitting cups, and bringing back rounds left and right, much to my vociferous joy.  You want to talk about elation?  I was in a full-arm cast not 10 days ago, and this was the first time that I felt like me since surgery.

It wasn’t to last, in spite of the boozification (yes, that is a word, and a proper description since I was playing pong with mixed drinks), Jill started screaming for mercy.  When my doc said to let pain be my guide, I listened.  When we finally were defeated, albeit fairly easily once the pain started really kicking, I bowed from the table.

All in all, I’ll take this win.  I can freaking play beer pong again.  Thus begins the road to recovery, with a shit-eating grin pasted on my face.  Guess I’m not a total loss after all.

Unplug.

At least I can blow my nose…

Posted: September 8, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , ,

I could make some kind of trite, stupid, welcome-back kind of statement here like thousands of other faceless bloggers across the web offer after a vacation–  but I know my readers are better than that.  Read further:  I’m better than that.   Yes, September 1 came and passed, and as promised, I tossed up the raw video of the unveiling of Jill– and damn was she ugly.  Of course, after an hour of furious (albeit painful) scrubbing to remove the pervasive layer of death that clung to my first love, I realized I wasn’t even close to being out of the cliched woods.

Let’s start off with Jill herself.  Yep, the fingers still work (knew that awhile ago), but the wrist had only about a 35% range of motion.  I expected that Jill wouldn’t be back to her old spry self, not by a long shot, and I was doubly thankful that she didn’t leap up and try to choke the ever loving shit out of me in pseudo-zombie rage.  I don’t think she could have, honestly, because in addition to the wrist– my elbow didn’t want to move.  Apparently this is normal, but Holy Mother of all that’s Unholy–  the amount of pain involved during the first day or so was beyond even my masochistic tastes.  The best part was the doctor telling me that I no longer required any sort of support (ACE wrap, cast, brace, etc.) because I’d been immobilized for six weeks.  I nearly shat cinderblocks.

Of course, knowing I was going on vacation, I asked the doc what types of actions/activities were no-no’s.  His response was priceless, “Let pain be your guide.”

Sounds like a case of badass moonlighting...

If only my conscience's direction was as unmistakably obvious as pain... Just saying...

Well, pain told me that the doc had his cranium firmly lodged in his colon– and letting Jill run around all willy-nilly was as stupid as trying to pogo-stick through a minefield, leading a troupe of hyperactive puppies.  Enter Norco, and my trusty old wrist brace (acquired when I first broke my hand in October 2010), to the rescue.  All is “well.”

Here I am, nearly a week later– and oddly enough, I still can’t fully straighten my right arm.  That’s not the weirdest part.  Apparently I shouldn’t have been worrying about turning into Patient Zero— I should have been worrying about becoming part Wookiee.  Yeah, apparently being in a cast for as long as I was means that hair follicles go apeshit while under cover.  Nobody warned me that I’d be sprouting hair in places that were as bare as (insert inappropriate simile here).  I would have filled in that parenthetical, but remember Mad Libs?  I think I’ve made my point about the fun of filling in the blank for yourself.

Which leaves me here, with partial use of an apparently mutated arm.  This partial usage is key, since I have caught a cold.  I would blame my loving girlfriend for this one, but we’ve both seemed to catch the wrath of the rhinovirus at about the same time, so any finger-pointing from this point forward is purely in jest.  I say this so she doesn’t kick my happy ass.  Needless to say, chicken soup in copious quantities isn’t part of the Kamikaze Diet (which is still to-be-posted), so I haven’t quite started it yet.

So, when it comes down to it…  I have a marginally useful arm, I’m still a lefty, still gimped–  but hey.  At least I can blow my freaking nose.  Now, if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I’ve gotta to hit the Sudafed again.

Unplug.

One More Time…

Posted: August 31, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , , ,

Yes, we have yet another song-inspired title.  Last time I celebrated the impending doom of my cast, and the countdown is now measured in hours instead of days… or weeks like when I began this whole writing odyssey.  In retrospect, it’s been a fun trip (for me at least), but it won’t be over once this damn fiberglass exoskeleton is cut from my body.

Yes, I’m celebrating the last days of my maul-whatever-the-hell-looks-tasty “diet.”  I put on over 20 freaking pounds since my happy ass went under the knife.  I was down to roughly 8% bodyfat when I initially lost the fight with that cursed refrigerator…  and this translates into an almost 25lb gain (I don’t want to even think about the real numerical damage done) since my last act of testosterone-fueled badassery.  Note to all you other guys out there who consider yourselves built like Terminators– knee-jerk reactions involving large objects may give you momentary glory, but you’re more likely to end up one of those dumpy bastards who could be mistaken for a perma-virgin with a WoW subscription.  Consider yourselves warned, again.

Ok, I can’t keep a train of thought to save my life right now.  I’m just stoked that I’m soon to be free, and I’m celebrating with a food orgy in my mouth.   Yes, I intend to swallow every last bit of it.  Savor that mental image, because there’s gonna be more carnivorous goodness going down my gullet than a frat mattress that realizes that they can’t hurt their reputation any further.   That’s kind of where I’m sitting right now with the whole waistline crisis thing.  Unlike that saucy mental image (that I know you’re still reeling from), I have no lasting stigma (nor disease).

My impending kamikaze diet won’t start tomorrow, no– because I’m going on vacation this weekend.  This is going to be a weekend of gut-busting awesomeness, complete with a stop to Primanti Brothers.  If any of you Yinzers out there have any other kinds of destinations in the greater Pittsburgh area that are of this ilk, comment here and put me in the loop.  I’m serious, last time I asked for input, I got three replies.  Three.  United States voter turnout is better than that, and it’s pretty tough to be lazier than that.  Anyway.

The first fix I had to get one last fill of was none other than a favorite from my hometown– AJ’s Texas Hots.

Cue the Heavenly Host

No Greek dog, no chili dog, no saucy wiener greater... than these Texas Hots.

These artery-destroying babies were handed down by God Himself to Johnny Colera of Jamestown, NY in 1936.  Many locals call all of them “Johnny’s” for short, and used to bitterly argue over which location made the best ones (both were owned/run by different branches of the same family).  We purists know AJ’s is the real deal.  Johnny’s Hots changed their recipe when they decided to franchise out, and the locals who’ve been eating them their entire lives know.   They committed rivalry suicide, and now there’s no freaking contest (but believe you me, they are still freaking epic if that’s all you can get your dirty mitts on).

Yes, my lackadaisical eating patterns are over after this weekend.  In the meantime, I’m going to be indulging like Charlie Sheen in Tony Montana’s private stockpile.  It’s not like I can do any more damage over the course of a weekend.

That and I’m just getting my body ready to drop a holy shitload of weight over the next month.  For those of you curious as to what I’m plotting, I’ll post the diet later– as if I needed to further seal the fact that I’ve lost my freaking mind.  I’m merely 13 hours from having an elbow again, and maybe Jill too.

Unplug.

And so it came to pass, the final week of Jill’s confinement is nigh.  I’ve sacrificed the majority of Summer 2011 (and more) solely in the name of healing.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself, but I’ve never taken well to brainwashing– self-imposed or otherwise.  I’d make a great deep-cover spy, in that respect.  Regardless, one basement-bound summer down, September 1 is a mere three days away, and you bet your sweet ass that I’m excited to get use of my elbow back (at very least).   The cliched light at the end of the tunnel sure isn’t freedom.  Looking at this objectively, I really don’t know what’s going to happen on Thursday– beyond cracking Jill out of her fiberglass prison.  For all I know, the doc could be slapping me into another cast.  If that’s the verdict, I’m going to be one pissed off unit.  In the past month and a half of gimptacular goodness– I have gained an unfathomable amount of respect for amputees, stroke victims, and any others who lose usage of an arm/hand (dominant or not).  I really don’t need to say much more.

Important segue aside, I have plans to jump into a pool, or at very least a hot tub, this coming weekend.  Doc and I will have a wee discussion about putting another cast on me, or at very least a swimmer’s cast.  If I’m medically ordered to be off until November 1, he had better not expect me to sit my fat ass on the couch any longer.  Why?  I put on 20 pounds in a month and a half.  I told you, I don’t halfass anything…  I’ve got two asses!  Anyway, considering my armchair obsession with being a walking embodiment of awesome, this full-arm cast has way overstayed its welcome.

Ok, that’s as close to whiny emo as I get.  My hair’s too curly, skin too naturally olive, and I’m flat-out too classy for that kind of non-funny self-deprecation.  Back to releasing Jill from her now-well-tattooed cast.  All ulterior motives aside, I’m more excited than a drunk freshman on a date with the campus slut.  Although I will miss fingerbanging my cast with rapid gusto, I’m actually excited for kamakaze dieting and working out.

In masochistic pre-celebration of this, I’m planning to actually video the unveiling with my hacked-to-bejesus android.  So yes, my monumental date will be recorded in full HD, for those of you with computers that can handle hi-res shenanigans.  Unfortunately, I am not of that lot, so the next step will involve a deal with Mephistopheles himself–  I’ll have to use a freaking Mac.  It’s not mine, since I am opposed to Trashintoss (because it’s the precursor to Skynet).  Anyway, all brand prejudices and commentary aside, I will be posting the first (and probably only) video to the ol’ blog:  the opening of Jill’s tomb.

So I ask you, my handful of readers–  help me with a choice.  I’m going to rip the music track from either of two movies to commemorate the next step in my rehabilitation.  Either I will continue with the whole Zombie Jill thing, and rip the sequence from Evil Dead 2…  

Or, I can do something a little more entertaining (to me at least).

Faces shall melt.

.. and we call all revel in the glory of my head exploding when I see how puny and putrid my first love has become.

So, for those of you paying attention, I pose to you a conundrum—  do I continue the theme, or does Dr. Jones (and equally importantly, John Williams) get the nod?

I leave this choice up to my readers because, well, I’m too preoccupied with plotting my vacation…

Unplug.

So last night, ended up hanging out with my cousin and a friend of ours.  Of course, with this particular crew, we end up talking music and video games…  which inevitably ended up at my cousin’s in front of his epic gamer setup.  I still had my 360 in the car (really can’t play it, explanation coming), so I made sure that I’d brought my copy of Duke Nukem Forever.  These guys have both played prior Duke games, but they lack the… enthusiasm that I have for it (but that’s a different story entirely).

Hail to the King, Baby!

"I've got balls of steel!" - Duke Nukem

This brings me to a major issue, the very heart of the reason that the 360 has stayed in my back seat.  I can run around, I can shoot, I can even switch weapons.  However, Jill’s dexterity is complete shit– and the cast further inhibits any prayer of analog-stick control.  I know, really kills my buzz even thinking about how Jill’s other stick control will have degraded too.  Anyway, after a quick run, they tossed in a fighting game.  Having learned from prior mistakes, I sat these rounds out.

Rounds, however, might be a bit generous of a description– because my cousin is some kind of sick genius at gaming.  If I’m playing a game somewhat regularly, yeah, I will wreck face with extreme prejudice.  This means I will do bad things to the AI, murder n00bs, and actually hold my own against most players.  Then you have my cousin, who appears to be just a walking amalgamation of all that is digital-interface rape.  So to say our friend went “rounds” with him is a bit of a misnomer.  My cousin toyed with him, and because he was screwing around, got beat a few times.  I’m glad I sat that one out, especially with the way my wrist was aching after getting my murder on.

Finally, we went and threw in a game we all know and love:  Star Wars Battlefront II.  Back in the day, my college buddies and I used to play hours on this game (and its predecessor).  Needless to say, they went co-op mode, and I advised them that I’d be the free-kill.  Of course, they’re freaking good at this game, so they didn’t care about another handicapped stormtrooper on their side.  I wasn’t entirely useless, thanks to my many hours of game play in the past.  We were all getting tired, so our last board was destined to be Mos Eisley.  It was time for every BF2 player’s guilty pleasure–  the hero assault.  My gaming skills just got relevant again.  I have a WMD in my back pocket.

Pay no attention to the tin can.

A force-dash powered murder missile.

I don’t have to worry about aiming Darth Maul anywhere– it’s more like steering.  He’s a ridiculously fast, linear weapon, with a wide radius of damage potential.  Essentially– point Darth Maul at something, book ass right into its face, and kill it to shit with a crimson storm of bitchslap.   Steering, oh yeah, I got this.  We three go co-op, again, mainly because you can’t make it a fair fight any other way.  That and we were also engaging in another guilty pleasure: the occasional comp-stomp, with the AI cranked to 11.  For those of you unaware of how much fun this is, I truly pity you.  I didn’t think I was doing as well as I was.  However, I guess I wasn’t spending all my time running around in circles looking for days to ruin.

I outscored my cousin.  I guess while I was running around in circles, I was also picking up kills like the Grim Reaper on coke.

Unplug.